


Tying the Knot

by Selador



Series: ffxv werewolf mates au [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, An Assortment of Supernatural Beings Are Known, Dragons, Grounded in Canon Verse, M/M, MT!Prompto, Slow Burnish, Supernatural Beings and Their Weird Behavior, Werewolf Mates, Werewolves, but not as much as in canon i changed up their ages as will be addressed and obvious in fic, neither Cor nor Prompto are prepared to be mates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-03-02 23:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13328802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selador/pseuds/Selador
Summary: Cor finds his mate at a press conference, of all places.





	1. Prompto Doesn't Get Found Out

**Author's Note:**

> this got out of hand and is gonna be multi-chaptered, apparently
> 
> I changed the ages of the characters which should be easy enough to track and also shouldn't change much about their characters or circumstances.

Cor finds his mate at a press conference, of all places.

He’s said his bit, by this point, and is waiting for his suffering to end. He does his best to seem alert, that he’s really paying attention to what Clarus’ speech, when the hint of a scent he knows instinctively is his _mate’s_ wafts by his nose.

 _Who_ … he thinks, gazing about the room. It’s not someone who’s regularly at these press conferences, so no one in the Citadel or one of the more persistent reporters. That’s a bit of a relief, admittedly—having his mate be a member of the paparazzi would be a nuisance at best.

Though a paparazzo would be infinitely better than the politics of his mate being some Councilman’s kid. Cor knows everyone on the Council, and he would hate to be beholden to any of them for any reason. Clarus and Regis are his limit.

He takes a careful, deep breath in through his nose. The scent is stronger. Cor wants to get up to prowl the room, but  _prowling_ would certainly catch notice. And with this crowd, make headlines.

The scent moves around during the press conference, coming from different directions. It’s hard to see into the crowd with the lighting, but Cor tries to track the movement.

 _There_.

The scent belongs to a young, blonde man with a camera, who keeps darting from corner to corner to take photos. _A paparazzo_ , Cor thinks dismally. But he’s beautiful with his face in deep concentration, tongue poking out at the side, as he takes photographs.

 _Shit._ Cor never took this mates thing all that seriously. Not every werewolf has one, after all, and Cor’s hit his thirties without finding his, despite traveling around the globe multiple times.

And, well. Who would have thought that his mate would be in Insomnia?

At a _press conference_? It feels like a bad omen. Clarus will never let him live it down. _He’s never going to have an excuse to not go to these stupid things ever again_.

Clarus sits down next to him, startling him.

The cacophony of noise in the room rises as Regis approaches the podium to speak, but Clarus’ glance slants Cor’s way.

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.

“My mate,” Cor says a bit strangled.

Clarus eyebrows raise, which is telling enough for his surprise. “What? Who?”

“The blonde with the camera,” Cor whispers, trying to move his face and lips as little as possible. Clarus eyes trail over the crowd and lands on the person in question.

He waves his hand until a crownsguard walks over and leans down for Clarus to whisper into his ear. “Request that blonde photographer over there stay and meet with Cor after the press conference. He’s his mate.” The Crownsguard nods and leaves the stage.

Cor’s eyes stay on the photographer, and he sees when the Crownsguard reaches him and gets his attention.

The sharp, acrid smell of terror cutts across the room, coming from his mate almost as soon as the Crownsguard gets his attention. Cor clenches the table, trying to keep his face neutral. He doesn’t know what Crownsguard Arbor is saying, not with the noise in the room and Regis’ ongoing speech, which he can barely focus on by itself with the ringing tinny coming incessantly from the speakers. Arbor’s a decent guy, there’s nothing Cor can think of offhand that Arbor would do that would elicit such a response, but his mate is _terrified_.

The blonde puts the camera down. He’s biting his lip, nervously, and he looks at Cor, who freezes.

The blonde’s stare is a little wide-eyed and frightened, and Cor doesn’t know how to make his entire face into something reassuring, especially not with so much _fear_. He doesn’t know the cause of it, and doesn’t know how to stop it. Trying to smile would be the most natural method of reassurance, but, well, Cor’s smiles never seem to do the trick.

It’s all just baring teeth, anyway.

The blonde nods to the Crownsguard, and they leave the room. Cor’s pretty sure that’s a good sign.

“You just need to wait 15 minutes,” Clarus whispers. He’s frowning, staring at the door the blonde and the Crownsguard just left through. He smelled the fear, too, then, and doesn’t know the cause. “Then you can go meet your mate. And _relax_ , Cor.”

Cor makes a point of not listening to Clarus most of the time, but he genuinely hopes Clarus is right about this.

…

Prompto doesn’t think much of the job when Vyv tells him about it.

It pays well, he’ll get to see the King and take pictures, all of which are positives in Prompto’s book. So it was pretty easy to tell Vyv yes.

And it goes well, up until the point where he’s crouching in the aisle smack dab in the middle of the seats, and there’s a light touch on his shoulder. “Sorry,” Prompto whispers, moving out of the walkway but… the guys’ got a crownsguard uniform on.

Oh, shit.

Oh, _shit_.

How did they know? What gave him away? Shit, shit, shit, _shit—!_

“Sir,” the Crownsguard says, and Prompto’s about to say that he’s really not a _sir_ , there’s no need to be so formal with him, and sorry if he’s in the way, or if he’s not supposed to be here, did his photographer tag fall off maybe? Because he’s _allowed_ to be here, he really is, nothing weird or Niffy about him here, nope. Anything to distract from whatever got them suspicious but—they wouldn’t call someone like him _sir_ if they knew, right? The thought halts his words. The Crownsguard continues, “Marshal Leonis would like to speak to you in private.”

“What?” Prompto whispers back. _Fuck_. The _Marshal_ of the _Crownsgaurd_?

His stomach sinks, and he thinks he might be sick. What gave him away?

How did they _know?_

Prompto doesn’t want to leave the relative safety of the crowd, but he also doesn’t want to talk about this—or worse, make a _scene_ —in a room teeming with paparazzi.

But gods. The Marshal of the Crownsguard. Shiva help him. He’s been found out, and they’re going to lock him up until he dies.

Prompto nods, nervously glancing around at the dozens of reporters in the room hoping that they haven’t caught any of their interest, and realizes that this is a mistake when his gaze lands on the Marshal, who is… staring at him.

Prompto can’t describe the expression on the Marshal’s face. But it makes him shudder, a little bit. Makes him want to run away.

Isn’t… isn’t Cor the Immortal a werewolf?

 _Should be a vampire_ , Prompto thinks with not a little panic, _since he’s the Immortal and all_.

He recognizes how the Marshal is staring at him now, though. He’s watching him closely, gaze piercing and tracking every movement, and it makes Prompto freeze. Like he’s _prey_.

Running away right now would probably be the worst decision he could make, despite what his instincts are telling him. Prompto still considers it. He desperately doesn’t want to be interrogated by a werewolf. Especially one that can and has cut through entire battalions of the Empire’s MTs without taking even a scratch.

He forces himself to look away, shuddering.

Gods. Insomnia doesn’t have capital punishment, not like the Empire, but would that matter to them? Would they even consider Prompto a person?

Are they just going to… cut him down, too? Bypass the whole locking him up thing entirely.

Without any other options, he follows the Crownsguard out of the room, and the door closes too loudly behind them, clicking shut.

“So what’s this about?” Prompto asks, trying not to shake in fear, beginning to pick at the tattoo he has on his right forearm to cover that _other_ tattoo no one but he and his tattoo artist know about. As soon as he realizes what he’s doing, he stops. Is that what gave him away?

“Marshal Cor Leonis,” says the Crownsguard, “would like to speak to you in private.”

“Yeah, but what about?” Prompto asks, hands shaking, so he shoves them into his pockets. “Am I in trouble? I have my pass, here, and I haven’t done anything—”

“No, you’re not in trouble,” says the Crownsguard. He sighs and shrugs a little. “He’s identified you as his mate.”

Prompto stares. His brain shifts gears slowly and with much difficulty from _I’m going to die_ to _what the fuck_. “No,” he says, because there’s just no way. Werewolf mates are a _big fucking deal_. He’s pretty sure they’re _for life_ , and he’s also pretty sure that anyone who ends up at Cor the Immortal’s mate is never going to have to worry about money or anything ever again.

And Prompto is—well, he knows exactly what he is and how he was made. He can’t be a werewolf’s mate.

The Crownsguard frowns and leans forward. “Are you _rejecting_ Marshal Leonis?”

“What?” Prompto asks. “Oh, no! I mean, I don’t think so? I—I mean,” he says only to find that he doesn't really have a good continuation for that. “What?”

“Perhaps it would be better for the Marshal to explain himself,” the Crownsguard says, adding, “before making a decision,” without sounding like there was a decision to make. _Why wouldn’t you_ seems implied.

“Yeah, okay,” is what Prompto says. “Can I go finish doing my job now?” Shit, but Vyv will have noticed that a crownsguard spoke to Prompto and will demand to know what that’s all about. “Actually, there’s only 15 more minutes, right?” He’s probably got enough photos already. “Let’s just go.”

The Crownsguard nods, and they walk away.

…

The Crownsguard takes Prompto to what probably amounts to a dining room, which has a table for four and cushy chairs, a couch, several plants, and paintings more valuable than Prompto could ever earn in his entire life. Prompto suspects it is meant to look casual, but nothing is casual when he’s been summoned to speak to Cor the Immortal. In private.

Because Cor Leonis thinks Prompto of all people is his mate.

And doesn’t know that Prompto’s an escaped lab specimen from Niflheim. That’s apparently not the issue here. Which is _baffling._

Prompto didn’t even think MTs _could_ be anyone’s mates like that. That there isn’t enough human left in them for it. Sure, no one on the street noticed Prompto or screamed he was an MT or anything like that, so he definitely didn’t _smell_ like an MT, but it’s got to have some effect.

“Have a seat,” says the Crownsguard. “There’s water and snacks on the table. The Marshal will be here shortly.”

And then Prompto is left alone.

It’s quiet.

He places his camera bag gently on the table, the dull thump of it still a little too loud.

Prompto scratches at his tattoo a bit, looking around the room. Everything there looks like it’s worth way more than Prompto would make in a year.

 _Gods_ , he thinks, _those are actual Tinguo paintings!_ He wanders a little closer, to check out the distinctive brushstrokes of Tinguo’s work. Getting closer to the painting means closer to the various decorative objects around the room and—shit, the designs on the candelabra are _intricate._ And the engraving in the wood is masterful.

Shit. He’s gotta take out his camera for this. This is an opportunity of a lifetime, despite his panic.

He gets his camera out, and lines up a shot for each art piece around the room. The lighting in the room lets him take some nice, dynamic pictures of the room’s set up.

Prompto’s so busy taking close up shots of an Aequabis egg, trying to find the best setting on his camera to capture the fine detail with its jewels. His camera’s really not for such close ups. It’s more for ranged shots, which he generally needs, when working on news jobs with Vyv. _Especially_ at press conferences, where there’s no guarantee he’ll get anywhere close to anyone important.

But it’s a good camera, and it’ll do. Prompto gets a decent shot, that gets the details in focus and vibrant, and once satisfied, he turns to the next item, a music box—

—and Cor the Immortal is standing by the door.

“Holy _shit!_ ” Prompto yells, jumping backwards. He hits a chair as he goes, nearly toppling both it and himself. He scrambles to keep both himself and the chair from falling, but the chair is likely worth far more than Prompto is. He finds his balance and catches the chair by the backrest, but not before the Marshal is across the room, arm reaching out for Prompto just a few inches away to catch him.

They stare at each other, still and silent. Prompto stares at Cor and his outstretched arm, the silence more oppressive by every passing moment. Without a word, he lifts his camera and takes a picture.

The _click_ of the shutter is loud in the room. _I should not have done that_ , Prompto thinks. He keeps his camera up by his face for a moment too long, its familiar presence a comfort.

Cor blinks. He lowers his arm.

Prompto clears his throat, and Cor’s eyes flick down towards it. “Uh, sorry.”

“It’s—” Cor the Immortal says. “It’s fine.”

They stand there. Photographing helped calm Prompto down quite a bit, but now, looking up at Cor the Immortal, the Marshal of the Crownsguard, all he can think is _there’s no way I’m this guy’s mate_.

And, really, it’s probably a mistake. There were lots of people in that room—what are the chances that it was actually Prompto?

And Prompto would be really, really happy if they don’t actually know about his origins. Because then he just has to tell this guy that there’s just a mistake since he can’t be his mate. Or maybe the Marshal has realized already? That could be why he was standing by the door. Now that he can identify Prompto’s scent alone, he can tell that he’s not his mate!

And he’ll be able to go home.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Cor says, eyes flicking down to Prompto’s name badge. “Prompto. You looked… very focused.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s okay,” Prompto says, “I was just taking pictures! Which I do, um, a lot, as you, obviously already noticed, since I’m, well, uh, taking pictures here, and I just took one of your face just now, which was kind of rude, so sorry about that too, I can delete it if you want me to?”

“No,” Cor says, after a beat. “It’s fine.”

“Oh, okay, great,” Prompto says, and desperately scrambles for some sort of conversation starter to break the awkwardness, but absolutely nothing comes to mind, and he can’t just say, _So, you think I’m your mate?_

He opens his mouth, and to his horror, “You really think _I’m_ your mate?” comes tumbling out. There’s a moment of detachment, and it feels reminiscent to that of a horror movie, unable to help the hapless protagonist as they get mauled to death.

The Marshal’s eyes narrow. “You _are_ my mate.”

“Um,” Prompto says, and takes a step back, this time _not_ falling over anything thankfully. But Cor the Immortal is standing a little close, as nice as it is that he was so prepared to come to Prompto’s aid. It’s… intimidating, and Prompto needs some space. “I can’t be your mate,” Prompto says. “There’s got to be some mistake.”

“There wasn’t a mistake,” the Marshal says with finality. He frowns. “Why are you so scared? You smell terrified.”

“Um, uh…” He grows conscious of his heart speeding up, and trying to tell himself to calm down doesn’t help. Prompto can’t just go and say, _No, really, I can’t be your mate, I’m a freak of nature, but I’m desperately hoping you won’t ever find that out._ “No offense, but how do you know? How do werewolves ever know? Is there like… some sort of special werewolf thing that tells that, yes, this random person is your One and Only? ‘Cause, how does that even work? And that kind of thing can’t be like. Perfect, can it?”

There’s really been way too much staring. It’s making Prompto itchy and nervous. “It’s my sense of smell. I… caught your scent, at the press conference,” Cor explains. “And I knew.”

“My scent?” Prompto asks, genuinely baffled. “How? There were so many people in that room, how’d you single _me_ out right away?” Because that was a _lot_ of people.

“It wasn’t right away,” Cor says. He looks away finally, frowning. “Should we sit?”

“Uh, yeah,” Prompto says, “that sounds fine.”

They sit down, Prompto in the chair that he almost toppled. Despite the plush cushioning on both the seat and the back, the plush does nothing to stop Prompto from sinking into the firmness of the chair itself. It is far too firm and deep to be at all comfortable.

“It took me the majority of the press conference to pinpoint that it was you,” Cor says slowly, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward. Prompto’s just trying to discreetly fidget into a comfortable position on the chair. “You were moving around, and while it can be difficult to pinpoint a scent in a crowded room—it’s best to sit at the edge of the chair,” Cor says, interrupting himself, and Prompto freezes.

“What?” Prompto asks.

“Rather than leaning back,” he says, “sit on the edge of the chair. It’s not great, but it’s better than sinking into it.”

“Oh,” Prompto says, scooching forward on the chair until he’s perched on the edge of it. The plush isn’t as thick at the edge, so he doesn’t sink so far down into the chair to feel so vulnerable. “Yeah. That’s better.”

A corner of Cor’s lips quirk up, and Prompto thinks it might be a smile?

“You were saying?” Prompto asks.

“Right,” Cor says, “you were moving around, so I was eventually able to pinpoint that it was your scent.”

“And—and that just tells you… that I’m your mate?” Prompto asks. “I smell… what does a mate smell like?”

“You—” Cor begins and stops short. “You smell like my mate. There’s no other way to describe it.”

“Yeah, but, what does that smell like? Like, it’s gotta smell good, then, right? Do I smell like— I dunno, sweet or—well, not like food right? I don’t smell like something you wanna eat,” and Prompto realizes what he’s saying and _desperately wishes he could stop_. “Not that, uh, I think you’re going to attack me, since—well, I know some werewolves do, but you’ve gotta be more, uh, self-controlled than that—”

“I don’t want to eat you,” Cor interrupts, slightly horrified. “You don’t smell like food. You smell like—” his mouth moves without saying words for a second. “You smell like home,” he decides on.

“Oh,” Prompto says. “Home sounds nice.” Ifrit. _Home_. If Prompto could get that from a person, he’d want that too.

“It does,” Cor agrees. Prompto recalls that since they’re sitting across the table from each other, in the same room, Cor is smelling him and that scent of home _right now_.

“So, right now, I smell like home to you?” Prompto asks.

“Yes,” Cor answers. “You do.”

“Well, that’s—nice, I guess. So, uh, what does being your mate mean?” Prompto asks.

“It… means you’re my mate,” says the Marshal, and Prompto’s really beginning to doubt that he got that position because he has a way with words.

“Yeah, but what does that mean? What do you want from me?” he asks.

The man seems overwhelmed, and Prompto almost feels sorry for asking. “I want you to be my mate,” he says. “It’s… kind of like a spouse.”

“You want to _marry_ me?” Prompto exclaims. He rests his hands on the table. They’re no longer shaking, but the world seems to have become a bizarre place. “I didn’t expect to be proposed to today, man.”

Cor frowns. “You still smell really scared,” he says. “You never answered my question.”

Prompto forces a laugh. “Little freaked out about a private meeting with the Marshal of the Crownsguard.”

Cor narrows his eyes at him, weighing the truth of that. _Shit, can he_ smell _lies?_ Prompto wonders, trying to remember all he knows about werewolves. He thinks they can? To an extent? Shit, he’s _fucked_.

After some long moments, he says finally, “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

“I don’t?” Prompto asks, voice going high with nerves. “So, if I wanted to walk out of here and never speak to you again, you’d just let me?”

Cor’s mouth twitches down. “You can leave if you want,” he says. “I won’t stop you. I’d rather you didn’t, however.”

Prompto hunches a bit. “I thought werewolves were all about protecting and controlling their mates.”

Cor sits up a little straighter. “No,” he says. “It’s not supposed to be like that. It’s—it should be a relationship, like any other.”

“A relationship,” Prompto repeats. “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t,” Cor agrees. “You don’t know me either. This isn’t something that has to be a yes or no answer, especially not today—shit.” Cor leans forward with his elbows on the table, face resting in his hand. “I’ve never done this before.”

Prompto laughs, weak and strained. “Me neither, man. Aren’t mates, like,” he swallows, fumbling a bit with the words, “a for life kind of deal?”

“Yes,” Cor mutters into his own palm. “They are.”

“So, if I say no—if I actually walk out of here—you’d just be without a mate, then?”

Cor’s face is pinched. “You don’t need to worry about that. If you want to leave, no one will force you otherwise.”

“Okay,” Prompto says. He breathes out. “I have questions.”

“You can ask anything you want,” he says.

Well, okay then. Prompto’s going to test that. “Does being mates mean we have to have sex?”

Prompto’s not sure if anyone has ever seen Cor the Immortal look so uncomfortable. “It’s… part of finalizing the mating bond, but you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“But,” Prompto says, “if it’s expected—”

“I’m never going to force you to do anything,” says Cor, whose face is red and miserable. “I—look. I don’t know what you know about werewolves, or their mates, but you don’t have to agree to be my mate. And even if you do, you don’t have to—we don’t have to do anything before we’re ready to do it.”

“Okay, so. About sex,” Prompto mutters, pushing forward. “If I do agree, does that mean that I can’t like. Ever have sex with anyone else ever?”

His face looks pinched, his fingers interlocking on the table in front of him. “I think other werewolves might ask that,” he says slowly. “Just like how other people do. But it should be a mutual decision. I won’t—if that makes you happy.” He seems to think of something and relaxes a bit. Prompto waits, but he does not share the thought.

“What about you?” Prompto asks. “Don’t—aren’t mates for life? What would you do if, uh—” he fumbles for words, then gives up and goes for it. “If I don’t want to have sex? Or if I say no?”

Cor stares at him, seriously. Or, more seriously. He’s already pretty serious. “Generally speaking,” he says, “werewolves don’t have sex with other people once they’ve found their mates. Even if their mate refuses them.”

Ah, okay. Prompto chuckles nervously. “No pressure, right?”

“No pressure,” he agrees firmly. “No, really,” he insists, after seeing the incredulous expression on Prompto’s face. “I didn’t think I would even have a mate. If you say no, I’ll be going on as I did before.”

“But isn’t—I mean, I’m not a werewolf or anything, but isn’t getting rejected by your mate… bad?” Prompto asks, then cringes because was that _really_ the best way to ask that? “Not that I’m rejecting you! Or, um, accepting you, either,” Prompto tacks on, to clarify, and it’s frankly even worse than before. “But, uh, you won’t die or anything, right?”

“No one likes rejection, but I’m definitely not going to die over it,” Cor says evenly. He shrugs. “We don’t know each other. My senses are telling me you’re my mate, but I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. It would be… disappointing, if you choose to say no, not devastating. And to be clear, that would be my problem. Not yours.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. “Okay.” Further words fail him after a statement like that.

There’s an awkward, stifling silence, and Cor asks, “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four,” Prompto says.

“Twenty-four,” he repeats, frowning. “You’re Noct’s age, then.”

It takes a moment for it to click who ‘Noct’ might be. “Oh, yeah, uh. I guess. Uh, you’re thirty-five, right?”

“I am,” Cor says.

“So, eleven years,” Prompto says. “Not the worst gap.” It is still _a gap_ , though. And not the kind of thing Prompto’s ever been into.

“Not the worst gap,” Cor repeats. He’s giving Prompto a kind of squinty eyed, serious look, and Prompto’s not sure if that’s his default or if he should be nervous.

“Well,” Prompto says. “I sure have a lot to think about, but I would like to—to go, and think about them on my own, so—” He stands up. Cor does, too.

“I’ll show you out,” he says. “And—here, take this. It has my phone number on it.”

He hands Prompto a card, who glances at it just long enough to see the official, Crownsguard insignia and embossing on it before pocketing it.

They walk in silence out of the room and get as far as the hallway before Prompto almost literally runs into the Shield of the King.

“Ah, Cor,” says Shield Amicitia, but he’s looking at Prompto. “And this is your mate?”

“Clarus,” Cor says. He sighs. “This is Prompto. I was just showing him out.”

The Shield frowns. “Leaving already?” Prompto opens his mouth, but doesn’t have a response to that. “I’ll have a car take him home. What’s your security like?”

“Uh, what?” Prompto asks, realizing the second question was in fact for him.

“Your security at your home,” Amicitia repeats, as if that makes perfect sense.

Prompto stares at him. “I have a couple of locks on my door.” Amicitia frowns at him, so he adds, “And, uh, locks on my windows? There’s bars, too.”

“I’ll send someone with you to up your security,” he decides.

“That’s really not necessary,” Prompto says, glancing between Cor and Amicitia.

“It might not be,” says the Shield. “If only the three of us know your Cor’s mate, then all will be fine, and I’ll tolerate being called overly cautious. But if that information spreads somehow, as it often does, we would all feel better if you had better security.”

“I—you would feel better?” Prompto asks. “Why?”

“Of course,” Amicitia says. “You’re Cor’s mate.” And for a second, his eyes flash gold. Prompto’s shoulders tense. “It would be remiss of me if you weren’t well-protected.”

 _Dragon_ , Prompto thinks. _Oh, right. Fuck._

“We haven’t decided on anything, Clarus,” Cor warns. “Don’t overwhelm him. He has a lot to think about. We both do.”

“Yes,” Clarus agrees. “It is a lot to think about. Where do you live, Prompto?”

“Uh, Niff District,” Prompto answers, freezing up as soon as he says it. _Shit, what are they going to think about that?_ and then, _No, it’s obvious I’m a Niff, they’ve got to know already._

“In the 4th quarter,” Cor rumbles, “or the 19th quarter?”

 _Shit_. “Nineteenth,” Prompto answers. Both of their eyes narrow, and they exchange a look. _Crap_.

“If you ever want assistance moving, to a place closer or safer, you only need to ask,” says Clarus.

“What,” Prompto asks, a concern occurring to him suddenly, “you’re not expecting me to move in with Cor, are you?” Shit, that would be fucking _terrifying_. How could he live with someone who would be able to sniff through his lies? Or hear his heartbeat constantly? Prompto would go fucking paranoid.

Amicitia, strangely, snorts, while Cor says with force, “No.” Prompto fidgets. He’s clearly missing something, but Cor only clears his throat, and says, “No, we’re definitely not expecting that. Clarus is only making an offer because he’s an old dragon who can’t not meddle.”

“Oh,” Prompto says, with a shaky breath out, “okay.”

There’s a moment of silence, while the Shield is staring at the two of them. “There’ll be a car downstairs to take you home,” he says finally. “And do be sure to be in touch.”

“Of course, sir. My lord,” Prompto says, trying to remember what the proper address is.

Amicitia laughs. “Just call me Clarus. Cor does.”

Prompto’s not quite sure why what Cor does should suggest what Prompto should do, but he nods, and they finally get to walk away.

“Sorry about that,” Cor mutters. “He enjoys being _parental_.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Suddenly, that whole interaction makes a lot more sense. A parental _dragon_.

“Don’t dragons include people in their hoards?” Prompto asks.

Cor sighs. “They do. As far as Clarus is concerned, you’re part of that now. Just by virtue of being my mate. Whether or not you even agree to it.” He shrugs. “You don’t need to worry about it. He’ll be happy as long as he knows you’re safe and accounted for.”

So a dragon’s going to be checking in on him. Great.

The rest of their walk to the car is silent and awkward, and Prompto feels a profound relief when they arrive. “Well, this was—neat,” Prompto says, polite words not sufficient to describe how utterly awkward and frightening this entire experience was. “Nice meeting you.”

Cor looks as pained as he feels. That’s something. “You too,” he says.

Prompto wonders if he should say anything else, like when he should call him or what are they supposed to do next. But the car door is open with a crownsguard waiting, and Prompto finally gives in to his need to flee and gets in.


	2. A Dragon Insults Prompto's Food Inventory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If a werewolf isn't enough, now Prompto has dragons to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be a oneshot
> 
> how did it all go so wrong

The Citadel car is plush and smells of leather.

The driver, who’s a very tall man, even sitting, takes him through the districts of Insomnia. Prompto stares out the window, tapping his wrist, trying to convince himself that he’s only imagining the difference in the two shades of black.

“Nice tattoo,” says his driver. Prompto startles and looks up, and the driver’s amber eyes flick away when he meets them in the mirror.

“Thanks,” Prompto says, shifting around self-consciously. Suddenly, he’s aware that even though he’s left the Citadel, he’s surely still completely under observation.

“What’s it of?”

Prompto clears his throat, wondering what kind of demihuman has _amber_ eyes. “It’s just, uh. I wanted some geometric designs that looked like a camera.” Shit, is he really a werewolf’s mate? LIke, for _real_?

He feels like… he’s really not panicking enough about this.

Sweet Shiva, a werewolf. In the Empire, they always portrayed werewolves so… well, the Empire always portrayed Lucis as a country filled with monsters. Prompto knows better, and has known since he fled Niflheim, that it’s not Lucis that’s filled with monsters.

 _If anyone’s a monster_ , a small voice whispers in his head, and Prompto digs is nails into his wrist to stop it, _it’s you_.

“Nice,” the driver says. “You like cameras then?”

Prompto takes a moment to recall the thread of the conversation. “I’m a photographer. So, uh, yeah.”

“Ah,” the driver says. “You any good?”

Prompto shrugs. It’s a rude question, but offense diminishes his roiling self-hatred. “Other people think so. Enough to pay me to do it.”

He can see the driver smirk in the rear view mirror. “Nice. That’s awesome!” He even seems genuine about it too, so maybe he’s less rude, and more thoughtless.

Some moments of silence pass. “I’ve got a tattoo, also,” blurts the driver. Prompto wonders why he’s trying to make small talk. “It’s of an eagle. It was a symbol important to my mom’s family.”

“Oh,” Prompto says, “that’s nice?” and then cringes because he didn’t want that to actually sound like a question. The driver doesn’t say anything more.

The rest of the drive passes in silence, but Prompto becomes increasingly paranoid that the driver keeps looking at him in the rearview mirror. No, not paranoid. The driver _is_ looking at him whenever he’s stopped, but glances away when Prompto catches him. Prompto thinks of those old, stupid films in the Empire about the monsters in Lucis, but he tries to strangle the thought before it can form again.

“This is me,” Prompto says, relieved to finally be outside his apartment building.

The driver incredulously peers through the dash window. “ _Here?_ ”

“Yup,” Prompto says, “Home sweet home,” he begins to fumble with his seatbelt. “You can just drop me off here, this is good.”

“I’m supposed to increase your security,” says the driver. “While I’m here. So I need to come up with you.”

Prompto stops. “Uh, really?” Lord Amicitia did say that someone would, that they would send a crownsguard to do that, but Prompto didn’t think the driver is also a crownsguard. “You’re a crownsguard?”

The driver snorts. “Yup, sure am. Can I park here?”

He parks in front of the driveway, but Prompto knows for a fact that garage is filled with one of his neighbor's trash, so, “Yeah, should be fine.” The driver steps out of the car, and starts coming around like he’s going to open the door for Prompto, who immediately rushes to prevent that very thing from happening.

They close and lock the doors. Prompto worries, for a moment, that someone might try to break into the car, but it’s so… government official. And nothing’s in it.

Prompto supposes if someone jacks it, it’s not his fault. Probably.

“Uh, fifth floor,” Prompto says, as they make their way to the stairs.

“No elevators, huh?” the driver asks.

“No,” Prompto says, “building's too old.”

The driver hums, and they make their way up. Prompto tensely works up the courage to ask his name, and manages to by the time they get to the top.

“What’s your name again?” Prompto asks, certain that he said earlier but didn’t think he’d have to _remember_ it.

“Gladio,” says the driver. The Crownsguard. “Nice to meet you. Prompto, right?”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, stopping at his apartment door. He searches through his bag for his keys, not finding them immediately and thinking _oh god I left my keys inside_. It takes a minute or so of searching and fumbling to find them at the bottom and pull them out.

“Cute,” Gladio says, eyeing the cactuar keychain.

“Um, thanks,” Prompto says, as he steps inside, and turns on the light. “I like cactuars.”

They stand in silence, as Gladio takes in the space.

“Well,” he says, in that tone of voice that means _I can’t say anything nice about this, but I don’t want to be rude either_. “This is… cozy.”

“It’s a shitty apartment,” Prompto mutters. “It’s fine, you can say it.”

“It’s a really shitty apartment,” Gladio says. Permission once is all he needs, apparently.

Prompto lives in a small, studio apartment. It’s really tiny, the kitchen included in the room and a single window that is not currently getting much light in. The walls are an awful grey, but Prompto’s compensated for that by covering up as much of the walls as possible with color posters, and it mostly works.

Everything is spotless, though. Prompto doesn’t think he can ever forget his training enough to be messy. So even though the bathroom door is open and he wasn’t expecting a guest, at least he doesn’t have to be embarrassed about his cleanliness.

(The paint job of the room almost made Prompto not take the room. He’s had worse for everything else, but he didn’t want to feel like he was in a prison cell. Or worse, a laboratory.

But he needed a place to live more than he needed to be comfortable. So he’s dealt with it.)

Gladio’s gaze about the room makes him self-conscious. “Uh, do you want anything? Water? Or, uh, coffee?”

“No, I’m fine,” Gladio says, walking over to the window. “You know, you could stay with us, if you’d rather.”

Prompto’s brain short circuits a little bit. “What?”

“It really wouldn’t be any trouble. We have the space, and we’ve had treasures live with us before,” Gladio keeps says. He pulls the window open, effortlessly, and Prompto was sure that just until then that that window _couldn’t_ open.

“ _Treasures_ ,” Prompto repeats slowly. The term seems stupidly romantic, and reality becomes questionable while Prompto tries to make sense of how that fits into this context. _Why the fuck is this guy calling me a treasure?_ And more importantly, _Why is he inviting me to_ live _with him?_

He was the guy that was supposed to come to his apartment with him, right? He was driving the car, they wouldn't—should Prompto be worried? No, that boat has sailed, Prompto is worried, and this guy is in his apartment with him.

Gladio looks back at him from the window, where he’s now testing the strength of the bars by trying the shake them. And they do shake. A lot. “Yeah? You’re part of my dad’s hoard, and Cor’s mate, so… oh, sorry, we just usually refer to people and objects in the hoard all as ‘treasures.’”

“Oh,” Prompto says. The pieces falling into place, and they all leave him uncomfortable. “Your _dad_.”

“Yeah,” says Gladio, preoccupied by the bars. He shakes them again, and they rip off. “Oops. Shoot.”

“You mean, _Clarus_ is your dad,” Prompto says, realizing. “And you’re a dragon.”

Gladio pauses bring in the bars and looks at Prompto. “Ye—yeah, did I not mention that?”

“Nope,” Prompto says, “no, you did not.” He feels tired, and his head hurts. He sits down at the little table he has in the 'kitchen.'

Gladio chuckles. “Sorry about that! Shit, that must have been weird.”

Prompto tries to laugh as well, but he’s too tired. “Yeah, man. Some random dude, offering me a place to live.”

“Uh, yeah,” Gladio says. “I know you humans are kind of weird about that kind of thing, but it’s pretty normal for us. And werewolves, too, even. It’s a serious offer, you know.”

“What is?” Prompto asks. He resists the urge to rub his forehead.

“Living with us,” Gladio repeats seriously. Prompto makes a face without meaning to, and he continues, “You’re part of our hoard. We’ll take care of you.” Gladio meaningfully glances around the room. “It’ll be better than this, anyway.”

Prompto feels his lip curl, and shakes his head. “Aren’t you supposed to just, make my place secure or something? And then, you know, go?”

Gladio opens his mouth and starts to say, “Listen—”

“No,” Prompto snaps. “Either do what you need to do here or leave.”

Gladio’ eyes flash gold, and he takes in a slow breath. “Yeah, of course. Let me fix these bars here.” There’s a flash of blue that makes Prompto flinch in his chair, and suddenly Gladio has a toolbox. “Ah, sorry. Didn’t mean to surprise you. I was just summoning some supplies from the Arsenal.”  
  
“The Arsenal?” Prompto repeats. “That’s the King’s… magic weapon supply?” Prompto never understood the King and his magic. The Empire always painted them as horrifying, daemonic abominations. He knows better now to believe anything the Empire told him.

Especially since he knows there’s a daemonic abomination in Insomnia, and it’s certainly not anyone in the Royal Family.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Gladio says, putting the bars back on outside the window. He stops speaking while he uses a drill to put the bars back in. When he’s done, he tests them and they don’t move this time. “It stores a lot more than weapons, though. It’s a, uh… pocket dimension. Kind of. And this is the Prince’s, not the King’s.”  
  
“What’s the difference?” Prompto asks, watching Gladio take out more tools and some wires. He goes to the door and sets about adding a deadbolt.

“Just a different person involved. King’s Arsenal's a little more developed. But all of the Kingsglaive use it and have used it for a while. Noct’s just getting his started.” More drilling, while he attaches the deadbolt.

“Huh,” Prompto says, which is lost into the noise.

Gladio wipes the sawdust away, checks the bolt slides smoothly, and stands up. He opens his mouth, but Prompto asks, “Does Cor live with you? Since he’s hoard.”

He laughs. “Nah, he doesn’t. Dad wants him, too, though. He bothers him a lot about it.”

Prompto taps his fingers against the table, wondering if _he’ll_ need to deal with a couple of dragons constantly trying to get him to live with them. _Gods_ , he doesn’t even know them. He’s a freak from Niflheim. They would figure him out _so fast_.

He catches himself scratching at his tattoo again. He stops, but not before he spies Gladio watching his hand.

“Nervous habit?” Gladio asks, sympathetically. He’s walk around again, to his kitchenette. It’s a good an excuse as any, and it’s not even really wrong, so Prompto nods. Gladio doesn’t see, though, because he’s opening up Prompto’s fridge.

Prompto stares at him, staring at the contents of his fridge. He closes the fridge, then starts opening cabinets.

“... Is this really all the food you have?” Gladio asks.

“I—haven’t gone shopping recently,” Prompto lies.

Gladio hums. “You know dragons know when you’re lying, right?” he says disapprovingly, and Prompto feels wretched momentarily for how disappointed he made this stranger. Then he remembers, _Fuck this guy_.

“Well, it’s not any of your business,” Prompto says.

“Shoot,” Gladio says, leaning against the counter. “That’s not what I meant. I—look. What did my dad say about being part of the hoard?”

“I… not much?” Prompto says, trying to recall what was said. He’d still been in panic mode when that was happening. “It was, uh, Cor who told me that I was part of Lord Amicitia’s hoard.”  
  
“Clarus,” Gladio corrects. “You can call him Clarus. You’re part of the hoard.”

“Okay, can you stop? Please?” Prompto says. Shiva, he’s so tired and pissed off. “No one asked me if I wanted to be part of the hoard. And, and I don’t? Want to? I didn’t want some dragon to come into my apartment, making judgements about my life. And you keep saying, oh, you’re part of the hoard, but that doesn’t _mean_ anything to me!”

Gladio’s eyes bleed gold during Prompto’s tirade, and Prompto… leans back a little bit, in his chair. He won’t attack him, Prompto knows he won’t, but it’s difficult to not think about it.

“Okay,” Gladio says. “Would you like me to explain what being part of a hoard means?”

They stare each other down. The gold doesn’t fade, but he seems… calm. Prompto deflats. “Sure.”

Gladio stays where he is leaning against the counter. Prompto doesn’t have anywhere for him to sit that’s not on the bed or the chair Prompto is currently occupying. “Cor is part of my dad’s hoard, and has been since he was fifteen,” Gladio begins. “Because you are Cor’s mate, and that’s a… not something that can change, or stop being important to Cor, you’re part of my dad’s hoard now, too.”

“Even though I haven’t accepted being Cor’s mate?” Prompto asks.

“You haven’t?” Gladio asks, looking genuinely surprised. “Uh, I mean, yeah. Even so. A werewolf’s mate isn’t… it doesn’t change. You’re pretty much it. For Cor.”

Prompto shifts uncomfortably, looking down into his lap.

“And, so… even if you _never_ accept being Cor’s mate, my dad will… look after your well-being. Make sure you’re okay.”

Prompto stares at him. The gold hasn’t faded yet, and Prompto doesn’t know what that means. Is he angry at Prompto? Upset? “Why?”

Gladio frowns. “Because you’re Cor’s mate—”

“Yeah, but I could be the worst person in the world, or—or just terrible.” Or, maybe, the result of some evil megalomaniac’s genetic materials mashed up with daemonic goo and who knows what else. “And you guys are just going to… offer me housing, and criticize my food inventory, no matter what?”

“You’re part of the _hoard_ ,” Gladio tries again. “We want to take care of you.”

“Okay!” Prompto exclaims. “I really would like this to stop now. Can you go? Are you done yet?”

Gladio frowns. “Let me finish up some temporary security features. Until we can get something more permanent in here.”

He quietly goes about setting up some alarms and sensors, and has Prompto set the codes. “These go straight to the Crownsguard. If there’s an issue, they’ll be alerted.”

“Great,” Prompto mutters. “They won’t be _watching_ me, will they?”

“No, of course not,” Gladio reassures. “If someone tries to break in, it’ll send an alarm.”

“That’s fine, I guess,” Prompto sighs. “So, I guess I do need to know what I should… expect, I guess, about being part of your dad’s hoard now.”

“Yeah, so,” Gladio says, disappearing his handy bag with a wave of his hand and a flash of blue. “Dragons like to… make sure their hoard is safe. Which is a little hard, with people as hoard sometimes, but that’s why we’re pretty happy to have our hoard living with us. And we have a lot more food, too.”

“Uh-huh,” Prompto says, annoyed. He can’t believe he found out that he was a werewolf’s mate today, and that’s not even the biggest problem he has right now. “So you’re all overbearing and have no sense of boundaries?”

Gladio snorts. “Yeah, pretty much. In our defense, it only seems that way to humans and a few kinds of demihumans. Werewolves get it, even if they do it differently than we do. Incubi as well.”

“And I don’t get a choice in the whole hoard thing?” Prompto asks. “Can I say no?”

“I mean… you can,” Gladio says. “My dad is… the type of dragon who would definitely try _harder_ if you did that. For a while, at least. You’d probably have to compromise with letting him make sure you’re physically safe.” He breathes in, and lets it out. There’s a bit of smoke with it. “Are you… are you going to reject Cor?”

“I don’t know,” Prompto tells him honestly, since he can’t lie to a dragon. “It’s only been three hours, man.”

“Right,” he says. “You’re right. I’m sure this is a lot to take in.” He stands there. “But… look. I hope you don’t let me and my thoughtlessness reflect badly on Cor. He’s a good guy.”

There’s not much Prompto can say to that. “Right,” he mutters.

“And… here, you should call me. If you need anything. I’ll try not to get too overbearing, but being part of the hoard means you can ask us for help whenever you need it,” Gladio says, offering him a card.

Prompto takes it. It also has an official Crownsguard embossing on it, like Cor’s does.

“I’ll think about it,” Prompto says. Gladio stares at him, probably trying to figure out if he’s lying or not, but joke’s on him—Prompto’s not sure about that himself. “Thanks.”

...

After some final security measures, Gladio leaves, and Prompto’s finally alone in his apartment again.

Prompto sits down on his bed, and breathes in and out with his eyes closed until he no longer feels like he’s going to panic.

He’s got this. He’ll be fine.

His head still hurts.

Prompto breathes in. There’s werewolf who says Prompto’s his mate. And that werewolf is Cor Leonis. And somehow, because of that, he’s now part of a dragon’s hoard. He breathes out.

Shit, he never sent Vyv any of the photos he took.

He takes out his phone and checks his emails, and sure enough, there’s five from Vyv.

 _Vyv Dorden_ **where the fuck are you**  
_Vyv Dorden_ **last chance to send me photos**  
_Vyv Dorden_ **will buy photos from someone els...**  
_Vyv Dorden_ **where’d you go with that crownsg...**  
_Vyv Dorden_ **photos**

“Fuck,” Prompto says quietly. He scans through the emails, but they all amount to the same information. Vyv wanted to know where Prompto had gone before the end of the press conference, why a crownsguard took him out of the room, that he’d buy someone else’s photos instead, but he’d rather get Prompto’s since his are better.

He doesn’t say that last bit, of course.

Shit, Prompto hasn’t even had a chance to look through his photos yet.

He opens the last email from Vyv, and shoots off an email to tell him that he’ll send him his photographs in fifteen minutes, and sets out it.

Vyv calls him.

“What the fuck, kid?” Vyv demands, as soon as Prompto picks up. “First you disappear before the end of the job, then I have to hear from one of those jack offs at the Insomniac Chronicles that you were escorted out with a crownsguard, and then fucking radio silence?”

“Yeah,” Prompto begins, trying to come up with a believable lie, because he can’t ever tell _Vyv_ that he’s the mate of Cor the Immortal. “It was fine, it was just—uh, wanted to check my papers.”

“Oh, thank Ifrit’s flaming dick. I thought the Crownsguard was gonna swoop into my business, and I was gonna have to deny all contact with you.” He laughs a bit, and Prompto makes himself chuckle weakly with him. “You had all your papers and shit, right?”

“Yeah, I had all my papers,” Prompto says. They never once asked for his papers, Prompto realizes. That’s a bit refreshing. He doesn’t need to be naturalized to bang a werewolf. “I’ll send you those photos in a few minutes. I got some good ones.”

“Great, great,” Vyv says. “The article was good to go an hour ago, so hurry that up.”

He hangs up. Prompto sighs.

He pulls out his camera, and flips through the ones he took. Unfortunately, Prompto’s worked with Vyv long enough to he’s had to learn exactly what Vyv’s preferences are for the photos he buys. He wants a selection of the best and worst photos, so long as the _worst_ in that phrase means that the subject looks bad, and not that the photography is bad.

Prompto tries not to send those. He just… conveniently gets all good shots.

Setting about to select about ten of the best, two close ups of each of the three speakers and one of them all together, he hesitates when he comes across the candid photo he took of Cor.

His face is captured in surprise, his arm outreached towards the camera. His eyes reflect the light, illuminating his lycanthropy. If Prompto hadn’t lived that moment, it would look like Cor was reaching out to save him.

 _Yeah, save me from tripping over my own damned feet,_ Prompto thinks. It’s a good shot, though. He can’t ever share it, but… it’s a good shot.

He saves it, and moves on.

Unfortunately, there’s a problem that Prompto notices fairly quickly. He hadn’t thought much of it in the moment, concerned as he was with getting good shots of all of the speakers, but there are several Cor pictures where he’s looking straight into the camera.

 _Shit, that’s not suspicious_ , he thinks. Fortunately, he finds a few at the beginning that he likes of the King and the Shied where Cor isn’t looking straight at the camera.

He clicks between a couple of photos, find a shot where Cor is not looking at the camera—at _him_ , really—and then when he is. And continues to do so throughout most of the photos afterwards.

 _Not fucking subtle_ , Prompto thinks. Gods, what if someone noticed?

He clicks delete. Several times, until all the photos save the ones he’s sending to Vyv are gone.

That done, Prompto sighs, and puts away his camera.

Now what?

Thinking of the day makes panic encroach on his mind, so he gets up, makes himself a sandwich, and goes to his laptop and turns it on.

It’s evening, so sleepingbeauty will probably be online.

And she is, her warrior avatar popping up green. Prompto thanks the gods, and shoots sleepy a message. _hey!_

 _sup_  
_wanna do a mission?_

 _totally,_ Prompto answers.

A couple of hours later, the mission goes poorly and Prompto keyboard smashes in frustration in the chat window.

 _u ok punner?_  
_u seem off tonight_  

Prompto rubs his temple in frustration. _yeah, sorry man._ He hesitates before he adds, _it’s been kind of a day._

 _oh that sucks_  
_wanna talk about it_  
_?_

Prompto bites his lip, considering. He and sleepy don’t really talk about themselves. They play games together, and have for years, and sometimes talk about things in their daily like, but nothing this _big_.

But gods, Prompto doesn’t have anyone else he can talk to.

 _i do,_ Prompto writes. _but it’s a little intense, is that okay?_

sleepy doesn’t reply for a few minutes, and Prompto fights the urge to immediately take it back, to say that everything’s fine, and they don’t need to talk about anything.

Then sleepy responds, _yeah of course, what’s up?_  

Shit, though, Prompto can’t say he’s the mate of _Cor Leonis_.

Carefully, Prompto types, _i met a werewolf today. he told me that i’m his mate._ He presses enter and stares at his statements, wondering how the fuck he can possibly elaborate.

 _oh congrats!!!!!!_  
_that’s awesome_

That’s not the reply Prompto expected, and his fingers hover his keyboard while he thinks of a reply that will explain how really not awesome it is.

_i… guess?_

_i’m not sure how i feel about it_ , which is a lie, because Prompto know exactly how he feels about it, which is not positive. He’s so filled with worry, anxiety, panic, and fear that he’s a step away from being sick to his stomach.

 _why not?_ asks sleepy. _i mean isn’t this a good thing_

 _is it?_ Prompto asks. It’s supposed to be, isn’t it? At least in Insomnia, where demihumans make up half the population at least, and are celebrated. _i dunno i’m a little stressed about it._ A little stressed doesn’t quite cut it, but it’ll do.

sleepy starts to type. Then stops. Types again, and then, _i mean, is it the werewolf specifically? or werewolves in general?_  
_idk i know a werewolf and he’s super cool_

 _yeah, but_ , Prompto types, and doesn’t continue. _i mean… i didn’t grow up in insomnia._ He stops again.

_u mentinoed that before. u grew up in like tenebrae or smth?_

_yeah,_ Prompto lies, relieved that sleepy assumed _Tenebrae_ and not _Niflheim_. Though, technically, they’re one in the same, now. _i mean you know that… the empire lies to its people right_

_yeah of coures_

_so,_ Prompto writes, _i know they’re lies that the empire told to get me to hate lucis but. they’re hard to really unlearn_

 _what kind of lies_  
_?_  
_???_

 _like,_ Prompto begins, _monsters rule lucis. vampires treat humans like cattle. werewolves_ , he hesitates on this, since he doesn’t want to insult sleepy’s werewolf friend, but he sighs and adds, _force themselves on their mates as soon as they find them._  
_dragons steal you away and never let you go._  
_sex daemons walk around and create dens of depravity_  
_royal family are actually daemon fuckers_

sleepy doesn’t reply. Prompto adds, _you know that sort of shit._ His descriptions do nothing to capture the images that Prompto and the others were forced to watch on a near daily basis, of the monsters that they were told Lucis let walked around freely, ripping people apart, taking who and what they wanted. But Prompto thinks he was clear enough. Or was it too much?

sleepy starts typing, and Prompto rushes to beat her to it to add, _i KNOW it’s not true, like i know all of it isn’t true, but it’s. it was a lot of brainwashing_

 _okay so i know you said everything you just said is a lie, but fyi it’s incubi and succubi, not sex daemons_  
_they dont lik being lumped in w actual daemons_

Fuck. _i didn’t even know that,_ Prompto writes. And he didn't, even after living in Insomnia for almost a decade. Crap—did he just unknowingly insult her? He assumed she was human, but could she be a succubus and Prompto just horribly insulted her? That would be par the course for him. _sorry. thanks for telling me_

He doesn’t really know that much about her—Prompto talks about his dates sometimes, or they talk about work, but mostly they keep it fun and video game-related.

Though, Prompto's pretty sure sleepy thinks  _he's_ a girl, too. Neither of them have ever wanted to do voice chat, and keep their own lives private, and use female avatars. 

 _np_  
_okay so_  
_i mean what did u think of the werewolf you met?_  
_cause i mean werewolves arent like that_  
_but it sounds lik eu know that_

 _yeah,_ Prompto starts. Gods, his conversation with Cor feels so far away, what with everything that happened since then. But, _it was… okay? i was freaking out_ , because he thought they had found out that he the freak result of a Niff experiment, or even just wanted to question his documents, but he can’t say that to sleepy. He can’t say that to _anyone_. And in the moment, it was hard to think of anything else except that, but, _he answered all of my questions, even the stupid ones._ Oh, gods, he asked some really insulting questions, didn’t he? He even said that werewolves were all about ‘protecting and controlling their mates.’ And he asked about _sex!_ If he wanted to have sex with him! Oh gods, even if he’s Cor only option, it’d be a miracle if he ever wanted to talk to him again.

 _thats goooood!_ sleepy writes.  
_so r u just worried caus of the empire’s bs?_

No. No, it’s not just that. Prompto groans, and stretches his head back, to stare at his ceiling. It has spots on it that look pretty gross.

If it was only that, that would be _so much_ easier to deal with. Not at all simple, since Prompto has been in Insomnia for almost a decade now and he still didn’t even know not to call incubi and succubi sex demons. But he wished that was his only problem.

He rubs his wrist. The dark bands of black that hide his secret reveal nothing to help him.

 _yeah. i mean mostly. it’s just a lot,_ Prompto settles on.

 _yeah i can see why that is_  
_but_  
_did u like him at all_  
_?_  

 _i don’t really know,_ Prompto writes. _how would you feel about a stranger telling you that you’re the one and only for him?_ And before he can think it through, he adds, _and there’s no way i can be his mate_

If being a mate _is_ supposed to be a good thing, like Cor said, and sleepy is saying, then how could it happen to _Prompto_? He’s a lucky son of a gun, but if he takes everything Cor said at face value then it’s much too good to be even a little true.

He should do some research. Prompto opens a tab and types in to search _werewolf mates_.

Oh, sweet _Shiva_ , that is porn.

Crap. He’ll have to actually research to find real information.

 _wat why not?_  
_if he sniffed u out as his mate, then your p much it_  
_the nose knows_

 _but i don’t know him,_ Prompto says, in lieu of saying that he can’t be a werewolf’s mate because the Empire did so much shit to his body that he’s not quite sure how he comes off as human to anyone at all.

He really thought his body was too _altered_ for that.

 _i mean u won’t get to know him if u don’t give him a chance_  
_r u gonna give him a chance?_

Prompto stares at the screen, and rubs his dry eyes. He should go to bed. Sleep on this.

 _i guess i should,_ Prompto writes. _what if it doesn’t go well?_

 _then u refuse him,_ sleep writes. _and know that u gave it a shot_

 _okay,_ Prompto sends, nerves making his gut churn, _what if it DOES go well?_ If it goes well, he’ll need to… be a werewolf’s mate. Be part of his life. Be part of _Cor the Immortal’s_ life. How does one get used to living with a werewolf? Can’t they smell—everything? He’ll be under a microscope, and he won’t hold up to that level of inspection for very long.

Ifrit, that doesn’t even get to the _public’s_ eye. Fuck.

There’s no way this can go well.

 _if it goes well,_ sleepy types, _then you have a mate too. it goes both ways_

Oh. That would be… nice.

It sounds too good to happen, but it would be nice.

And… okay, even if they find out about Prompto’s _background_ , if he’s supposed to be the _one_ for Cor… would that protect him? At all?

Cor Leonis is one of the most important men in Lucis. If… if there was anyone who could protect him, it’d probably be him. And, protecting is what a werewolf is supposed to do for their mate. Right?

Would that make it worth it? Is that something Prompto could even make himself _do_?

The idea of agreeing to be a werewolf’s mate for safety, even if it’s not _only_ for safety, twists uneasily in his mind. That would be a pretty shitty thing to do, wouldn't it? And even if he could justify it, pretending so well that a werewolf’s senses are fooled is probably impossible.

And… gods. Prompto doesn’t think he can make himself do that. Cor is hot, sure, but he’d rather be frightened and free and fighting than safe and kept.

Gladio’s face when he walked into his apartment springs to his mind, and his outright offer to let Prompto, a stranger who he only just met because he's Cor's mate, _live_ with his family, emerges in his mind's eye. Because his apartment is _that bad._

Prompto scans around, and… yeah. To himself, he can admit his living space is really that bad.

He watches sleepy type, then stop, to start again.

Really, if he thinks about it, sleepy is his only real friend. And while they’ve known each other for years… but he doesn’t know anything important about her. And only pretty pointless information like that she hates vegetables. She’s going to take over her father’s business and does not want to. She hates cold weather.

Not much else.

Even if the werewolf and dragon thing was a lot in one day, even if he’s somehow now a werewolf’s mate and a dragon’s hoard, it’s still an improvement on the Empire. That’s inarguably true, because the Empire would have removed his ability to _think_. Prompto may have one friend, a terrible boss, and a shitty apartment, but at least he can think.

Prompto finds a website called _lycanthropyawareness.org_ that looks legit, and clicks. It looks good, The Association of Lycanthropy Awareness. It has little tabs, some of which are clearly for werewolves themselves, but there’s one for _Mates and Packmates_ , which Prompto goes to.

He scans through and… nothing seems that different from what Cor said. Nothing that jumps out at him as a reason to be concerned.

So what does he stand to lose, by giving Cor a chance? Giving the mates thing a chance? No one’s taken him away, or forced him to do much of anything, and really, it was the dragons who were more overbearing than the werewolf he’s supposed to be the mate of.

 _Am I really going to give this a shot?_ Prompto wonders. If it goes well, then… he’d have a life partner, it sounds like. Having someone in his life, an actual person, who cared about him sounds… nice.

There would be a risk to it, of course. But Prompto got out of the Empire, escaped to Insomnia, and made a new life for himself. Where would he be without a little risk?

 _Shit, I’m going to try this. I’m gonna honestly try this,_ Prompto thinks. Prompto still doesn’t think it’ll work, but… sleepy’s not wrong. He should give Cor a chance. _Okay. Shit._

 _so?_ sleepy messages. _did that help_

 _yeah,_ Prompto writes. _it did. thanks :)_

 _np_  
_:)_  
_so you’re going to give him a call?_

 _yeah,_ Prompto writes honestly, _i will_


	3. Prompto Already Knows How To Handle A Sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They go on a dinner date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think of so many brilliant things to say in these notes while i'm writing the chapter and i naturally forget all of them when i'm posting
> 
> anyway enjoy!!

Prompto has every intention of calling Cor the next day. Every intention. Really. He goes to bed absolutely determined that he’s going to call Cor as soon as it’s a reasonable hour, and he’ll sound confident and calm when he tells him, “Let’s talk about this whole mates thing, because I’m willing to give it a shot,” and he could imagine, vividly in his head, that they could both agree on meeting up and talking. Because that would be the first step. Wouldn’t it?

He wakes up in doubt, no longer able to remember what he was planning on saying, and why he even thought meeting up to talk would be a good idea.

And besides, Cor’s busy working. Prompto really should wait until after he’s done working, so he doesn’t interrupt something important.

He’s the Marshal of the Crownsguard, he’s probably _always_ doing something important.

Which is what Prompto tells himself, as he puts off calling Cor for an hour, and then for another hour, and then the entire day’s passed.

At which point, Prompto thinks, _I can’t call him after working hours, that’s his free time!_

So, despite his intentions, he doesn’t call.

…

Or the day after.

…

The day after that, Vyv sends him a job to do.

It takes Prompto out of Insomnia for a few days, which, while it isn’t unusual, certainly isn’t common. But Prompto really doesn’t have a good reason to stay in Insomnia, as he hasn’t done anything that he said he would yet.

So he goes. The job’s just to take a nice picture of the Disc—time consuming, but not particularly dangerous. And it’s beautiful, in Duscae.

More importantly, it’s the kind of location you need a chocobo to get to, and lucky him; the chocobo ranch is so close by! He splurges, renting a bird for a couple of days, knowing that Vyv will refuse to reimburse the second day.

Worth it.

He returns to Insomnia pleased with his work and his trip, to the point where he didn’t even dread going home to his sad, little apartment.

Prompto drops his bag on his table, and resists the urge to dive into his bed for a quick shower, to get all of the road dust, grime, and chocobo smell off of him.

And _then_ he dives into bed, and falls asleep almost instantly.

…

Prompto wakes up seven hours later feeling great. He checks his phone to make sure Vyv got his photos and that he got his payment, and goes back to sleep.

When he wakes up again, five hours has passed, and Prompto’s tired of sleeping. He gets up, and as he’s eating what he’s going to call breakfast, he turns on the TV for news.

He stops on a channel where the Crownsguard are having a press conference. They do that a lot, but Prompto sees the Marshal of the Crownsguard present, and… he guiltily remembers that he still hasn’t given Cor a call.

His Lieutenant, Monica something, spends most of the time speaking. Prompto might have missed Cor’s part, and really there was no reason to watch this, but—

Cor looks tired.

Granted, Prompto doesn’t know him very well, so maybe it’s his normal, but he’s seen enough bags under his own eyes in the mirror to know that it _shouldn’t_ be even if it was.

His resolve to finally call Cor solidifies even as his heart immediately begins to thud in his chest at the thought. For several long minutes, Prompto doesn’t do anything save for waiting to calm down.

When he does, he picks up his phone and the card Cor gave him. The press conference isn’t live; there’s no reason for him to put off calling…

Without thinking about it further so he can talk himself out of it, Prompto dials.

It rings and Prompto considers hanging up. He doesn’t think he’s capable of leaving a voicemail. Oh, Six, what would he even say?

It picks up.

“ _This is Cor._ ”

Prompto freezes. “Hi,” he says, eventually.

“Who is this?” Cor says, after a lengthy pause.

“It’s, uh, Prompto,” he says. _Does he need to say more?_ Cor wouldn’t just… forget who his mate is, right? No. That’d be absurd. Prompto stops himself from clarifying where they met.

“Ah,” Cor says. “I didn’t expect you would call.”

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” Prompto says, “I was… doing a job out of the city, so… I haven’t been around.”

“I see,” Cor says.

Prompto hates talking on the phone. He has no idea what Cor means by that. If he could see his face, at least he’d have just that much more to work off of.

“I wanted to, uh,” Prompto says, “call because… I was wondering if we should—you know, talk sometime?”

“‘Talk’.”

When it’s clear that Cor isn’t going to say more, Prompto says, “Yeah.”

“I would be happy to talk sometime,” Cor says. “Am I… correct in assuming that you wish to discuss further on what being a werewolf’s mate entails?”

“Uh, I mean, yeah,” Prompto answers, picking at a thread at the bottom of his pajamas. “I was also thinking it might be good to. You know. Get to know each other.”

“Oh,” Cor says.

Prompto doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t that.

He hears Cor clear his throat. “Yes. That would be great.”

Pulling on the thread and making the end of his shirt tighten as he does, he says, “Great, so, uh… how do we do this?” Prompto just essentially just asked Cor on a date, right? The Marshal of the Crownsguard. On a _date._

And he said _yes._

He didn’t really have a plan for this. Or any idea of what one does on a date with your werewolf mate.

It would probably need to be discreet, considering, but while Prompto has an extensive knowledge of seedy bars in the area, he doesn’t think that’s the kind of place he should go to with a werewolf. Or the Marshal of the Crownsguard.

And it is a date, right? Or… what else would it be? They need to get to know each other, but if Prompto’s _it_ for Cor already, where does that leave them? How can they just get to know each other with that sort of… knowledge already hanging around?

“If you want to talk,” Cor says, voice slow and deep. _It’s a nice voice_ , says a part of Prompto’s brain that’s not allowed to have any say in any decisions at the moment. “Then perhaps we should do it over dinner?”

_Dinner_ . Dinner is a blessedly normal suggestion. Prompto can do dinner. “That sounds good,” he says.

“There’s a place by the Citadel,” Cor says, “that’s quiet and private. Would that do?”

Private is good. Prompto doesn’t need everyone to know that he’s having dinner with Cor the Immortal.

It’s going to be fine.

…

It is not fine.

Prompto shows up to the address Cor texted him, and he walks by it twice, not realizing that the extremely ritzy restaurant is, in fact, where they’re meeting.

_Crap_ , he thinks, as he stares at the place, not quite willing to go inside. He’s not dressed for this. He doesn’t _own_ clothes good enough for this. He’s got on his nice button down on, as his black slacks that he wears to important press conferences, but he has a total of one jacket and one pair of formal-ish shoes.

Taking out his phone, he checks it to see if maybe, just maybe, Cor’s cancelled on him and he won’t have to step inside.

No luck. He’s got no notifications, aside from a booty call from Petra he ignores, and a _good luck!_ from sleepy.

Prompto’s already five minutes late. Cor’s hopefully there, so at least he won’t have to convince the restaurant that he is, in fact, meant to be there.

He walks in, trying to pretend he knows what he’s doing. _Just like a press conference,_ he thinks. _When the King’s there. You can do this. You’ve been in the same room as the King._

A waiter steps up to him from their reception stand, and Prompto smiles as best he can and says, “I’m meeting someone here, they should already be at their table?”

“Name?” asks the waiter, whose eyes glance up at his _hair_ , not at his clothes. Prompto does stand out quite a lot in Insomnia, and not for the right reasons. _Well,_ Prompto thinks as he gives Cor’s name. _Maybe it wouldn’t have even mattered if I did dress up fancy for this._

“Mr. Argentum?” asks the waiter. “I’ll take you to your table.”

He’s led through the restaurant, much of it private stalls, but the people he does see in the open floor are decked in shimmery fabrics and jewels. _Oh, Ifrit’s giant flaming dick, this was a bad idea…_

The waiter holds open the curtain of a private booth, which is empty.

“Oh,” Prompto says lightly, to himself. Because the waiter sure won’t care that Cor isn’t there yet. “I’ll just… wait then.” He’s already gone.

Prompto sits down. By himself. In a place where, once again, every object is assuredly worth more than he is.

Even the fork. It has so much decorative nonsense, it’s also probably worth way more than Prompto can make on a single job.

He sighs.

The curtains open, and Prompto perks up, thinking Cor’s shown up—but no. It’s the waiter.

“Would you like anything to drink, sir?” he asks, putting down a menu and a couple glasses to fill with a carafe. Prompto’s never been called _sir_ before.

Alcohol of any kind sounded _really_ good, but none of the items on the menu have a price. Prompto was fairly certain that Cor would pay for this “date,” since he picked the place and _especially_ now that he knows how fancy it is, but if he doesn’t show up…

“Uh, I’ll wait. Thank you,” Prompto says.

The waiter smiles professionally and leaves.

Prompto waits and damn near vibrates with nervous energy.

He takes out his phone, and messages sleepy, _he’s not here!!!!!!! DDDDDD:_

sleepy doesn’t reply. Prompto didn’t think she would, but he sure wishes she could be around to distract and reassure him.

After ten agonizing minutes, just a few before Prompto would have thrown in the towel and made his escape, Cor shows up, pushing away the curtain without any fanfare. “Sorry I’m late,” Cor says, face a bit pink. “There was an urgent issue at the Citadel. And I’m—” Cor checks his phone. “Ah. I thought I’d make it here quicker. I would have texted if I’d realized how late I was running.”

“It’s fine,” Prompto says, so relieved that he hadn’t been stood up. “It happens.”

Cor sits down. “Have you ordered anything?”

“Uh, not yet,” Prompto says. He’s looked at the menu plenty, but he has no idea what most anything is.

“Sorry, I—” Cor begins, but the waiter appears.

“Drinks, sirs?” the waiter says. His professionalism is noteworthy; he’s not _that_ much friendlier now than before.

“Uh,” Prompto says, “yeah, sure, the, uh… merlot?”

The waiter waits patiently. “Which merlot, sir?” Prompto stares. “We have five.”

“Oh, um,” Prompto flips to the drinks menu, and points to the merlot at the top. “That one.”

“Excellent choice, sir,” the waiter says, not writing anything down. He doesn’t even have a pad of paper. “And for you, Marshal?”

“Glass of the same, thanks,” Cor says. “Give us a few for food.”

“Of course,” says the waiter, and he _bows_ before he leaves.

“Well,” Prompto says, not really sure how to say, _dude, what the fuck_ to a werewolf he’s on a fancy dinner date with.

“Sorry,” Cor says, face definitely red now. “I asked Clarus for a recommendation, and—I didn’t realize.”

“It’s okay,” Prompto says. “I mean, I’ve never eaten at a place this fancy before, so it’ll be a fun experience!”

Poor guy looks torn, but he doesn’t get a chance to say anything before the waiter returns with their wine.

“Two glasses of merlot,” says the waiter, pouring a tiny bit into each glass. He stands there, holding the bottle. Prompto stares at the tiny amount, wondering if that’s really what constitutes a glass of wine here, as Cor picks up the glass and takes a sip.

“It’s good. Thank you,” he nods, and the waiter pours wine into both glasses until they’re almost full.

“Compliments of the owner, Marshal,” says the waiter, leaving the bottle on the table.

“Ha,” Prompto says, “nice.”

Cor nods.

“Does that happen often?” Prompto asks.

“No,” Cor says, “but I don't often go out to eat.”

“Missing out on free stuff,” Prompto teases. Or attempts to. He’s not sure what counts as appropriate teasing with a rich werewolf who wants to bone him.

… Bone him until death do they part. Because the mate thing is a ‘for life’ kind of deal. Right. He’s not going to worry about that just yet.

Besides, at some point, Cor’s going to realize that he can’t settle down with a Niff.

A corner of Cor’s mouth lifts up a bit. Prompto will take what he can get.

“You said you were out of town for a job recently?” Cor asks. “I thought you were a reporter?”

“Nah,” Prompto says, picking up his glass of wine to take a sip. It tastes like wine. “Just a freelance photographer. But the guy who runs one of the main papers likes my work, so he hires me a lot for all sorts of things. He wants pictures of a press conference? I’m there. He wants some of the Disc of Caulthuss? I’m there too.”

Cor’s face doesn’t change quite enough to say that he’s frowning, but there’s definitely an unhappy aspect to it as Prompto speaks. “By yourself? Traveling through Lucis on your own is dangerous.”

“I mean, yeah,” Prompto says, slouching a bit. With little else to do, he holds his wine glass, sipping it every so often. The wilds of Lucis really aren’t that bad, relatively speaking. Sure, there’s monsters everywhere and daemons come out at night, but the Empire isn’t actively hunting for him here. “I know. I don’t really have much of a choice though. And I’ve done fine so far.”

“Of course, I didn’t mean—” Cor sighs. “I have no right to feel protective of you, but it’s very difficult not to. But that isn’t your problem.”

“Oh,” Prompto says. That’s… almost sweet. The novelty of someone being concerned for his welfare helps too.

Aside from sleepy, of course. Sleepy checks in with him after his out of town jobs.

“So the protectiveness is a werewolf thing?” Prompto asks.

“You could say that,” Cor says, frowning a bit, “but there isn’t really a part of that’s a werewolf and a part of me that is not. It’s all me,” he explains. “However inconvenient it is.”

Oh. Huh. Prompto hasn’t thought of it that way before.

“So protectiveness is a you thing,” Prompto asks.

“It—yes.”

“Okay,” Prompto says, “so—okay. What am I supposed to do with the fact that we _don’t_ really know each other, but you’re… already several steps ahead?” Cor doesn’t reply right away, so Prompto continues, “I mean, you’re already at the commitment level, and I’m not, and how do we… how do werewolves and their mates usually handle this kind of thing? ‘Cause I can’t be the first to have concerns.”

“From my understanding,” Cor replies, “most people try to make it work. And they usually do.”

“How?”

Cor shrugs. “If I knew that, I’d be doing it.”

Prompto laughs in surprise. “Yeah. This would be a lot easier if we had a step by step guide.”

“Dragons really don’t give good advice, either,” Cor adds, waving around to the restaurant.

They’re interrupted by the waiter, and Prompto orders something that sounds like it’s probably a steak, but he’s not too sure about that.

“So, uh,” Prompto says, “about dragons.”

Cor grimaces. “What did Clarus do?”

“Nothing, nothing! It’s just—so he sent his son with me, after we met a week ago,” Prompto says, “to do the security improvements. And he… criticized my entire apartment, and my pantry, and offered to let me live with them, and explained that I was part of Clarus’ hoard?”

Cor sighs.

“It was kind of a lot,” Prompto says.

“They’re always like that,” Cor mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Gladio’s usually a bit better than Clarus, but—what was wrong with your apartment?”

“Oh,” Prompto says, a little surprised that Gladio _didn’t_ immediately run back to Clarus and Cor and tell them the state of his living conditions. “It’s, just, uh. A terrible apartment.”

Cor squinting at him, and Prompto fairly certain that he’s either going to be interrogated or he will be after Cor speaks to Gladio, but he says, “While I know it’s… very odd, in human social norms standards, to… move in with…”

“Your father figure?” Prompto suggests, as Cor pauses trying to find the right word for his relationship with Clarus.

“Fuck, I suppose he is. Yes. Even though it’d odd by human social norm standards, it may not be a bad idea for other reasons.”

Cor looks completely serious. Prompto stares. Tries not to think about the old propaganda, and says, “I really don’t think it is a good idea.”

“If your apartment is so bad, you could—”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Prompto repeats.

“Alright,” Cor concedes. “I’m not suggesting this as a way to pressure you. I want you to… have options. That don’t include me.”

“Don’t all of the options that you’re giving me include you somehow?” Prompto asks. He takes another drink of his wine, because he is _so_ not drunk enough for this conversation. “Like if I went to live with your dragon family, I’d be essentially just moving in with your family?”

Cor shifts around, but his response is delayed by the waiter appearing with their food.

The food smells more delicious than anything Prompto has ever had before. His stomach growls, and it takes a second for Prompto to realize that Cor could probably hear that.

Gods. Werewolf senses. That’s so weird.

There’s quiet clinking of utensils for a bit. “Do you know how to fight at all, if you go out of Insomnia for work?”

“Oh, yeah,” Prompto says, and remembering that he’s talking to the guy in charge of one of their military fractions and is a legend himself, adds on quickly, “nothing that good, of course.”

Cor’s not deterred. “What weapons do you use?”

“Uh, guns mostly,” Prompto says. “I’ve got a machete if things get to close though.” Not that he uses his machete, ever. He’s definitely opted for shooting things in the face rather than switch weapons mid-fight.

“A machete?” Cor asks, “You ever tried a real sword?”

_Do not make a dick joke, do not make a dick joke,_ do not _make a dick joke—_ “Oh, I definitely know how to handle _real_ swords.” _Dammit!_

“Then why use a machete? With a proper sword, you can do a lot more damage,” Cor says.

Prompto stares at him, and he sees before him two cliffs. One where he proceeds, pretending that he does, in fact, know how to use an actual sword, in the attempt to not explain his dick joke, and inevitably gets called on it. And the other where he corrects Cor and explains what he _meant_ with his comment.

Both include flinging himself off a cliff at the end because he won’t be able to live with this embarrassment either way.

“Uh, I don’t—that is, I meant—” Prompto begins. “I didn’t mean an actual sword,” he finishes, face burning. He turns to his food and takes a big bite of it so he can stop talking.

There’s a moment of realization, that takes the form of Cor raising his brows slightly. “You clearly can’t handle them very well,” he says, “if a machete is the _biggest_ you’re used to.”

Prompto almost chokes, laughing. “Oh my _gods_ ,” he says.

“Sorry,” Cor says, smiling a little. “Was that too much for you to take?”

Prompto snorts as he giggles. “Damn! Okay, I won’t underestimate you next time!”

“Really? You’re just going to _give_ that one to me?”

“You’re the one who handles swords _all day_ ,” Prompto counters. “In the _military_. I should have predicted the dirty jokes. I bet sword training with the boys is _non-stop_ dick jokes.”

“You’re not wrong,” Cor says. “Most people don’t laugh at my jokes, however.”

“What, why not? They weren’t that bad.”

“Thanks,” Cor responds with an edge of sarcasm. “I don’t think most people think I’m actually making the jokes. Or they’re too intimidated to laugh.”

Well, Prompto’s intimidated, and he still laughed. Granted, Cor isn’t his superior officer or someone who could fire him… although, he probably _could_ make it so Prompto never could get another job in Insomnia again.

If he wanted to.

“What’s wrong?” Cor asks. “Your—you look upset.”

“I, uh, no, I’m fine,” Prompto thinks, heart thudding again and he _knows_ Cor can hear it. “Crap.”

He tries to give himself time to calm down, and to occupy his hands, by drinking some more of his wine.

The glass shakes a bit in his hold, but pressing it to his mouth does the trick.

Everything’s fine, he tells himself, as his gut warms up with the wine. Cor’s been… great, and low pressure, really, and he shouldn’t forget that. He’s not going to suddenly manipulate Prompto into being with him. He doesn’t need to worry about that.

“I’m fine,” Prompto repeats. “I just got a little overwhelmed. I’m fine.”

“Right,” Cor says, clearly not believing him.

“So, uh,” Prompto says. The waiter comes by to check on them, and pours him another glass of wine. “Thank you. So, how did… the whole thing with Clarus and his family happen?”

“Ah,” Cor says, relaxing back into the booth. “You know when I was fifteen, I was King Mors’ bodyguard?”

He… kinda knew that. He knew that Cor joined the Crownsguard really young. Younger than he should have, or anyone with a conscious would have allowed if Insomnia wasn’t losing the war.

But Mors was the King who drew the Wall back from all of Lucis to Insomnia. It definitely… wasn’t a good time.

“Yeah, kinda,” Prompto says.

“Well,” Cor continues, “King Mors sent me to join Regis on his journey to fill his Armiger to be his bodyguard. Regis and the others were all rather… frustrated with this decision, as I was so young compared to Regis and his chosen entourage. Instead of accepting that I was there as an expendable soldier for Regis’ life,” he continues, shrugging, like it’s no big deal that a fifteen-year-old would accept that he’s sent on a mission to die. He wonders what Cor would think of him, if he knew how desperately Prompto escaped himself at around the same age to avoid certain death in service to the Imperial military. “They made sure I got through alright. And Clarus got attached.”

“Wow,” Prompto says, “heh. Was that before or after you fought the Blade Master? If that’s even true?”

The waiter shows up, briefly, replacing their wine bottle with a new one and refilling their glasses. They didn’t ask for that, and Prompto isn’t brave enough to ask if that’s normal or special treatment.

“Oh, it’s true,” Cor murmurs. “I’ve never seen Clarus so angry than when they found me returning from the Trials.” He clears his throat, tilting his head as he absently taps the table. “I wasn’t quite part of his hoard, at that point, but that was mostly because werewolves and dragons… have different ways of showing affection and belonging. I wasn’t even quite sure what I needed at that point.”

“Were you turned…?” Prompto begins, knowing that it’s probably rude but asking anyway. He’s much more relaxed now, feeling a bit warm and floaty.

Cor nods and doesn’t add anymore.

Prompto drops it. Getting turned usually isn’t a good experience from what he’s heard.

“When did you come to Insomnia?” Cor asks.

“Uh, I was fifteen.”

“Did you come with your parents?”

Prompto shifts. “Uh, no.”

Cor doesn’t ask. “That must have been difficult.”

“Yeah,” Prompto says, avoiding eye contact. “I don’t want to talk about it.” There’s no point in doing so—Cor can definitely hear his heart rate and know that he’s anxious and uncomfortable. But he doesn’t need to be any more obvious.

“How did you get into photography?” Cor asks, the sudden change of subject a great relief.

“Oh, I like documenting where I’ve been,” Prompto says with well-practiced vagueness. “I always take photographs of things anyway.” Photographs were always real in a way Prompto didn’t always feel. No matter what he is or where he came from, he could look back at them and remember that he existed and had been to these beautiful places in the world.

The Empire can’t take that away from him.

Cor considers him, and Prompto thinks, _Crap, is he going to prod?_ but then he asks, “What kinds of guns do you use?” Cor asks. His specialty is not guns, but he knows plenty about them, having to train others and fight an army that primarily uses them.

Their food and their wine are almost gone. It’s been _good_ , Prompto can’t deny that, and the date isn’t the total disaster he thought it would be.

Then he stands up, and almost falls over.

He catches himself on the table, which shifts with a loud screeching noise across the floor, but thankfully remains solidly planted on the floor and keeps Prompto up. Cor’s hands grip his shoulders tightly, keeping him in place. The world spins, languidly, and the blood rushes to his head.

“Oh,” he says, warm and loose-limbed from what he now realizes was too much wine. “I’m drunk.”

“No kidding,” Cor murmurs.

“Stop judging,” Prompto says, focusing very hard on the table and not at Cor’s face, where he can hear the frown. “You’re really intimidating.”

He feels more than hears Cor’s sigh, as he pulls him up by pulling his arm around his shoulder. “Let’s get you home.”

Prompto can’t quite stumble, because Cor’s not giving him enough leeway to do so. Which is great, once they’re out in the restaurant; he never realized how badly he doesn’t want to stumble around like a drunkard in the fanciest place he’s ever been to.

Fanciest, save for the Citadel. Prompto thinks that the restaurant is far more intimidating between the two.

Cor talks to someone—oh, it’s the waiter—on their way out. Prompto wonders if they’ve paid.

Well, at the very least, no one stops them on their way out of the door. Prompto relaxes a great deal once he’s outside, leaning more into Cor.

“Shit. You’re a light-weight.”

“Makes me easy to carry,” Prompto mumbles in response.

Cor huffs, holding Prompto up with one arm as he fishes out his phone with the other one. “I’ll get you a cab and make sure you get home okay, alright?”

Prompto agrees distantly. “Home is good,” he says.

Some minutes pass, maybe, Prompto’s not entirely sure, but he stands next to Cor feeling like he’s swaying but not. “I didn’t realize I drank that much,” Prompto says.

“I didn’t either,” Cor says. “Do you… often drink?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t gotten drunk in a long time,” Prompto says. He makes a point not to, usually, when he’s hooking up with someone at a bar. He’s usually so much better at keeping himself safe.

This isn’t a hook up, and it’s not a seedy bar. Prompto made a mistake, not keeping track of how stressed he was and how much he was drinking to deal with it.

“I’m sorry,” Prompto says. “I bet you’re regretting that I’m your mate right now.”

“No, I’m not,” Cor says. “Don't say that.”

Prompto quiets immediately, shame a potent mixture with alcohol.

Cor sighs again. “No, I didn’t mean—you don’t need to worry or fear that I’m going to regret that you’re my mate. You’re my _mate_. That’s not something I can change my mind about.”

Prompto’s stomach plummets. He hadn’t thought about—didn’t even _realize—_

He’s spent all this time fretting and anxious, but Cor has absolutely no choice in this either.

Shiva. That must be so disappointing, to have no choice in his mate and to be stuck with a _Niff_ , of all people.

He hunches his shoulders in on himself, as best he can while they wait.

A car pulls up, and Cor opens the back door for him. “Put your seatbelt on,” he orders, sliding into the shotgun seat.

Prompto pulls the seatbelt down and around him, missing it a few times before it clicks. “Where are we heading?” asks the driver.

“Prompto, what’s your address?” Cor asks.

“It’s, uh,” shit, where does he live? “Um, it’s…”

The driver and Cor both look back at him.

“I can’t remember,” Prompto says weakly.

The driver frowns at him, and Prompto can see her thinking, _He better not throw up._ He leans against the door to try to appear more stable, but he doubts it helps.

“You can’t remember—shit. Fine,” he tells the driver an address, and she gets them going.

“Kid, there’s a bag in the backseat pocket,” the driver says, “Use that if you feel queasy.”

“Thanks,” Prompto mutters, face burning from embarrassment.

As the car drives on, Prompto does idly wonder where they’re going, but he doesn’t really _think_ about it until the car stops right outside a nice, old house with a great fence. Prompto stares at it, trying to remember which decade the architectural design is from, but the information doesn’t come forth.

Cor opens the door. “Alright, out we go,” and helps him out, pulling him out with hands under his arms.

Prompto stares up at the house and the yard.

“This place is _amazing_ ,” Prompto says, breathing in the smell of flowers and greenery. “Do you _live_ here?”

“Yeah,” Cor says, “whenever I’m in Insomnia.”

Cor doesn’t turn on the lights, so Prompto sees only shadowy outlines of the interior. That in addition to his drunk vision, he can’t tell what the inside of the house looks like, and he desperately wants to know how Cor decorates his house. Does he have a collection of swords on mantles? Or shields? Does he secretly have an appreciation for art? Maybe mementos from places he’s been?

Cor pulls him through the house, into a bedroom. He sits Prompto down on the edge of the bed, and kneels down and starts pulling at his shoes. _Oh, he’s trying to undo them_ , Prompto thinks. He tries to lean down to help, but after too many hands and fingers on his shoes, Cor pushes him away.

Prompto lets himself fall back onto the bed. It’s so comfortable. As soon as his second shoe is off, Prompto wiggles his way up and under the covers.

It’s cozy and warm and clean, smelling faintly of shampoo and sword oil. Prompto burrows further into the bed and falls asleep.


End file.
